


Life's a Riot with Spy vs. Spy

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010), This Means War (2012)
Genre: 10yearanniversary, Alternate Universe - Spy, Community: au_bingo, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This Means War</i> was <b>wrong wrong wrong</b>. Nevertheless, Mr Hardy makes it worth watching. Twice. And on the second viewing, I started thinking ... Wouldn't it be much more interesting if it was Eames versus Arthur, instead of Tuck versus FDR? (Not least because Arthur's <i>smart</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You're suspiciously quiet," says Arthur. "What's on your mind?"

The two of them are sharing the single couch in their minuscule office, watching old surveillance video on Arthur's laptop. The footage, grudgingly provided by the _gendarmerie_ , is cobbled together from camcorder and CCTV recordings of the mark and his dead wife. They've been watching it for hours, and Eames realises that he's slipped from professional mode into something more like a man hanging out with his mates -- okay, his mate, singular -- watching movies.

Romantic movies.

"It's lovely," he says, gesturing at the screen. "The way they look into each other's eyes."

"Yeah, and look how that ended up," says Arthur, the cynic. "He shoved her out of a window."

"You asked me a serious question," says Eames. "So you want a serious answer? Man to man?"

Arthur grunts. It's assent enough.

"I trust you," says Eames, staring hard at the screen in case something in Arthur's expression derails his confession. "I know you'd do anything for me; I'd do anything for you. I know that you would take a bullet for me -- I would for you as well." He uses the conditional rather than the past tense, because -- yeah, not exactly hypothetical. "You know that."

"Right," says Arthur, nodding. 

"Can you imagine all of that," Eames goes on, turning to Arthur. The light from the screen flickers over them both. Maybe this is the day, the hour, the moment. Maybe this is the right time to tell Arthur how he feels. They say Paris is the city of lovers, don't they? "Can you imagine what that would be like..."

"Yes?" says Arthur softly, turning to look at Eames. 

Eames -- Eames bottles it.

"With a woman?"

"No," says Arthur abruptly, sitting back in his chair and kicking at the low table in front of them. "No."

*

"I feel like I burnt all my bridges, coming here," Ariadne tells Yusuf.

They're sprawled on the big cushions by the open window of Ariadne's flat. Paris drifts in, traffic fumes and chestnut blossom and a couple quarrelling outside the bar downstairs. "Sure, I'm grateful to be studying under Professor Miles. But I was really hoping to work with his daughter: my supervisor back at Cal-Tech said she was the best. How was I to know they were married? That he'd --" She breaks off and takes another swig of harsh red wine.

"You couldn't have known," Yusuf reassures her.

"And I left everything behind," says Ariadne. "Friends, family, boyfriend. Cat. How the hell am I s'posed to meet someone here?"

Yusuf busies himself with the wine bottle. "I suppose you could try internet dating," he says diffidently.

"Are you kidding? Half those guys are serial killers!"

"Oh," says Yusuf cheerfully. "I'm sure it's much less than half. And hey, if you go on a date you can text me. You know. If you need me to come and rescue you."

Ariadne stares at Yusuf, who's gone a bit blurry. (Maybe that's the wine.) He's an unlikely white knight, but his smile's kind: his heart's in the right place. "Sure," she says, smiling back at him. " _If_ I get a date."

*

"So let me get this straight," says Arthur. "You put your personal, private details --"

"Not _all_ of them," interjects Eames.

"-- on a very public website."

They're in the upstairs room of an Irish pub just off the Champs-Elysee: the music and the clientele are abhorrent, but at least there's a pool table, and hardly anyone comes up here. It's as private as they can get, in public. "Yes," says Eames, lining up another shot. 

"Are you insane?" demands Arthur.

"No."

"Where are you taking her?"

"Café De--," says Eames absently, intent on his shot: then he looks up, wide-eyed, and the ball he was aiming for bounces pointlessly off the cushion. "Don't do that to me, Arthur!"

"Okay," says Arthur, picking up the other cue. "You're gonna go on this date, and I'm coming with you."

"No you're not."

"Yes I am," insists Arthur. "National security, okay? It might be a honeytrap."

"It's just a date," says Eames.

"Lucky for you I'm free tonight," says Arthur. "I'm gonna bring the binoculars --"

"No, Arthur, you can't do that," says Eames. He's holding the pool cue like he's getting ready to defend himself physically. "It's wrong. I need a little privacy."

"Okay," says Arthur. "I'll be around the corner, then. In that English-language bookstore, you know the one? You just call me. One ring if you need an extraction, two if you need cleanup, three means I can go on home."

"Two hundred yards," says Eames.

"You got it," says Arthur, and pots two balls in one awesome shot.

*

Eames likes Café Debussy: it's no different from a hundred other little Parisian cafes, but far enough from the tourist attractions that he can eavesdrop on conversations in French, instead of English or Italian. He's sufficiently distracted -- is that fellow _really_ talking about putting a rabbit on someone? -- that he doesn't notice the woman standing by his table until she says, "Mr Eames?"

"Just Eames, please. And you must be Ariadne, yes?"

"That's me!" she says, in English. 

"You are really, really beautiful," says Eames as she pulls out the chair across from him. He's hoping to assuage her nerves -- she looks as though she'd bolt at the drop of a hat -- but it's also, actually, true. She's wearing a red jacket that's cut to fit a bigger woman: she's petite -- wouldn't even come up to his shoulder -- and she looks about twelve. Still, there's something about her ...

"Say that a few more times," says Ariadne, leaning forward. "Because your voice is amazing."

Eames laughs. 

"I have to apologise for that bizarre profile," Ariadne goes on. She's talking too fast, words tumbling together. "My friend Yusuf thought he'd take the initiative, see, and ..."

"No, no. Don't apologise," says Eames. "Everyone should have one friend who's a spaz." Speaking of which. Under the table, he surreptitiously presses CALL on his phone, muffling the speaker with his palm, and counts off the tinny rings, one-two-three. 

"I think I'll have to kill him," says Ariadne.

She's so solemn that Eames, just to test her, says "I might be able to help with that."

Ariadne giggles. "Just kidding."

"Me too," says Eames after a beat, grinning.

"I have a really important question to ask you," says Ariadne, fiddling with the tassel of her scarf. "Have you ever been, or do you plan on being, a serial killer?"

"Well," says Eames. "You've got to keep your options open… No."

"So you've never killed anyone with your bare hands?" 

"Not this week," says Eames with perfect honesty. Sure, there was that guy who'd had a gun to Arthur's head, down in Tijuana: but that was at least two months ago.

Ariadne's phone chirps with an incoming text, startling them both.

"Oh, sorry," she says, thumbing a quick message. "That's Yusuf checking up on me. Can't be too safe, hey?"

"Absolutely," says Eames. 

"But right now," says Ariadne, "I'm gonna go pick up some books, and head back, and wait for your call."

"What time will you be home?" says Eames. He can't help smiling at the way her grin lights up her face.

*

Arthur's spent half an hour browsing the bookstore without finding anything that appeals. He spots the last copy of China Miéville's _Perdido Street Station_ \-- he lent his copy to Eames years ago, on a prolonged stake-out in Ljubljana, and he's never gotten it back -- just as a young woman reaches for it. 

"You take it," says Arthur generously, waving her forward. "Not sure you'll like it, though."

"How do you know what I'll like?" says the woman. She's barely more than a girl, really: between her youth and her North American accent (Nova Scotia? Maine?) Arthur guesses she's a student. There's a quality to her, though, an aliveness, that's compelling. She looks _happy_. Arthur (who's not feeling especially happy this evening; he can't stop thinking about Eames on that date, charming some undeserving female, turning _his_ smile on someone who doesn't -- who isn't Arthur) wants to soak up that happiness, bask in it.

"Well," he says, "I don't. But Miéville's early books are … well, they're an acquired taste."

"Perhaps I've already acquired the taste?" says the girl sweetly. She's not letting go of the book.

"Perhaps you'd care to discuss it over a coffee?" says Arthur. What's that dumb English thing Eames says? Sauce for the goose. If Eames can spend the evening with a pretty woman, so can he.

"I'm kind of in a hurry," says the girl. Arthur's expression must change, because she looks apologetic. "But I guess I could stop for a coffee. I'm Ariadne, by the way. And you are?"

"Arthur," says Arthur.

* 

"Checking out the porn sites again, Mr Eames?" Arthur slings his jacket over the back of the wooden chair, and settles down opposite Eames. Sucks that there's only one table in here, but at least it's sturdy. Has to be, the way Eames types.

"Nah," says Eames, fingers flying on his laptop keyboard. Does he look like a man who got laid last night? Arthur can't tell. He's never been able to tell, with Eames. "Checking out photos of my date."

"Hey," says Arthur, "I was doing the same thing." Well, okay, Ariadne wasn't exactly a _date_ : but he's tracked her down to the School of Architecture at Pantheon-Sorbonne, and she's got a pretty distinctive name. "Actually, I was running a background check," he adds.

"What, that girl you met at the bookstore?" says Eames, amused. "I don't know if that's creepy or romantic."

"National security," says Arthur. "Besides, think of how much shit I'd be in -- or you -- if we dated someone off of the watch list."

"Does yours _look_ like an international terrorist?"

"Yeah," says Arthur. "It's probably the scarves. But she's incredibly attractive with it. Wanna see?"

"I'll show you mine," leers Eames, "if you'll show me yours."

Arthur firmly quells the inevitable, familiar surge of lust that seems to be his response to even the slightest of Eames' innuendos. "On three, then. One ... Two ..." He swivels his Macbook to face Eames', and --

Arthur can feel his smile dropping away, just the way Eames' is doing. 

"Well, fuck me," says Eames at last. "That's …"

"... Ariadne," says Arthur. 

"Ariadne," agrees Eames. "That's the girl you met in the bookstore?"

"Yeah," says Arthur. "The one that's right around the corner from ... Cafe Debussy. Shit, Eames. I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't," says Eames. "How could you. Know. Did she, did she actually say she wanted to go out on a date with you?"

"We had coffee," says Arthur. "You know what? I'm gonna make this really easy. I'm gonna bow out. _You_ date her. I love you." It's safe when he says it like that, in a rush. "You're my best friend. You go date her."

"You don't have to bow out because of me, Arthur," says Eames kindly. "I'm not concerned that she's going to fall in love with you."

"How very nice of you. I'm flattered. Really."

"You're welcome," says Eames, beaming. Sarcasm just slides right off him. "You do your thing. Whatever that is. Let _her_ decide."

"Yeah," says Arthur.

"And while we're at it," says Eames, shoving his laptop aside and lounging back, arms folded. _Fuck_ , his shoulders. "I think we should lay down some ground rules."

"I think we should."

"Number one: I don't think we should tell her that we know each other."

"Number two," counters Arthur. "Let's stay out of each other's way."

"Number three: no hanky-panky."

_Hanky-panky_. Arthur mouths the words. Who even says that anymore? Smooth-talking sleazy-sexy Brits, that's who. 

"And," says Eames, "if this ever starts to affect our friendship --"

"-- which it won't," interjects Arthur.

"-- which it won't, we walk away. Done."

"Agreed."

"So," says Eames, tilting back in his chair and propping his feet on the battered desk. "We have a gentlemen's agreement."

"May the best man win," says Arthur, scowling and trying not to stare at the line of Eames' thighs.

"The best man for _her_ ," says Eames earnestly. 

"For the lady. Sure. For _her_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ariadne dates two guys. For women everywhere, allegedly.

Paris is never really quiet. Even up here, in this gorgeous park that was once a railway, the roar of traffic and the howl of sirens sometimes drowns out Ariadne's voice. Still, Eames is a bloody good listener, if he does say so himself. 

Ariadne’s told him how she came to Paris to study under Mallorie Cobb, but ended up with her father, Professor Miles, as her supervisor instead. "I left behind everything," she says, with a rueful laugh. "My boyfriend, my cat, my apartment ..."

She tells him plenty, but there's always more. Eames, like Sherlock Holmes, _observes_. It's his trade and his passion. So he knows that Ariadne misses the cat more than the boyfriend; that she had a crush on her advisor, Dominick Cobb, despite the fact that he was married; that she's feeling a little lost in Paris, despite the friends she's made at the University. That she's glad to be out on this date with someone who speaks English and looks good and makes her laugh.

Eames is good at making people laugh. 

"How did you even find this place?" says Ariadne, gesturing at the straight path that runs along the course of the old railway. There are flowers everywhere -- Paris in the spring, yeah, it's a cliché for a reason -- and the sun glints off a fountain, a sculpture, the bald pate of a jogger.

Eames can hardly tell her about being on a stake-out in one of the blocks facing onto it. The target used to walk here with his kids. "Oh," he says instead, "found it on the internet. It's a great bit of urban repurposing, eh?"

"I'd love to do work like this," says Ariadne. "I know it's not exactly architecture, but there must've been architects involved: look at the way the path changes, sometimes it's a suspended walkway, sometimes it's a broad straight track: the way it slices through those buildings up ahead ..."

Eames dodges an over-enthusiastic rollerblader, and turns to watch her recede. The back of his neck's prickling: he feels observed. A quick recon doesn't offer any clues, though –

There, above the bamboo that screens the park from the city beyond. He saw .. Yeah. There's a flash, a glint. A model aircraft?

"Fuck," says Eames under his breath.

"I'm sorry?" says Ariadne, reaching up to examine a perfect spray of blossom.

"Something in my shoe," lies Eames. "Hang on a mo."

That's a fucking _drone_. Someone's watching him. (Them.) Possibilities rush through his mind as he kneels to fiddle with his shoe. Cobb? Nah, the bloke doesn't even know he's being tracked. Enemy agents? Probably not, though can't rule it out. _Arthur?_

The idea that Arthur's looking at him _right now_ , from some dark room, through the surrogate eye of the drone … Eames' heartrate bumps up. He feels pissed off / embarrassed / amused / provocative. Probably all of the above. If Arthur's watching them -- watching _him_ \-- then ... 

Who's he watching though? Eames? Or Ariadne?

The thing dips closer. Eames can just make out the buzz of its little motor above the urban noise, if he listens hard. He gives it the finger.

"This sculpture's really something," calls Ariadne, from where she's examining a haphazard arrangement of metal rods.

"It certainly is," agrees Eames heartily, standing. He's tempted to give Arthur something to see, but ravishing Ariadne with a kiss, in public, on their first date -- nah. Unsubtle. "The question is," he goes on, sauntering towards her, "what manner of something is it?"

"Could be a representation of urban growth," says Ariadne thoughtfully.

“Mmm,” says Eames. “Or it could be some leftovers from when they put up the rose trellises.”

The buzzing's closer. Eames knuckles the small of his back, pretending to chase away a muscle twinge, and glances around. Nobody's looking (except Arthur). Nobody close enough …

"Hey, what's that?" he says to Ariadne, gesturing beyond the parapet to the street below.

It's the oldest trick in the book, but she falls for it. "What? Where?"

The coast's as clear as it's going to get. Eames slips his Glock (technically _Arthur's_ , which is a pleasing irony) out of the waistband of his trousers, aims from the waist, and pots the drone in one. It tumbles, unnoticed, into a stand of bamboo. 

"What was that?" cries Ariadne. "That noise?"

"What? Probably just a car backfiring," says Eames smoothly, making the pistol disappear under his loose shirt. "I can't believe how many wrecks are on the streets here. … It's pretty warm out here for April, eh? Shall we stop for a drink?"

One-nil, Arthur, he thinks as Ariadne takes hold of his hand.

*

"Asshole," says Arthur. 

The darkened screen reflects back his grin.

*

"I feel weird about dating two guys at once," Ariadne confides to Yusuf. They're at his place for a change, and he's cooking dinner for her. 

"Don't feel weird, Ari," says Yusuf over his shoulder, stirring noodles and vegetables. He splashes something from an unlabelled bottle into the pan, and it hisses. "Get out there! So many women would jump at the chance."

"It's kind of awesome," Ariadne admits. She pours them each another glass of wine.

"It _is_ awesome," says Yusuf, reaching past her for a jar. Looks like cinnamon. "Live a life, Ariadne, for women everywhere."

"You mean this is some kind of feminist activism?" 

"If it helps you to think so," says Yusuf, "then yes. Yes it is."

"For women everywhere," intones Ariadne, raising her glass in a solemn toast.

* 

Arthur's kind of disappointed in Eames' notion of a first date. He'd thought Eames would be creative as well as romantic: but a walk in the park? No imagination. Might as well go to the movies.

No, Ariadne's a smart girl, a student, an architect -- and Arthur does have a few ideas about what might appeal to her. 

"It's called the DomoLab," he tells her as they approach the research park. "Used to be an ordinary warehouse, but they repurposed it about ten years ago, put in decent insulation and made it a modern workspace. It's a low-energy building: they use it for meetings and creative workshopping, as well as storage."

"Hey, I love the glass," says Ariadne, gazing at the coloured façade of the building.

Arthur knows a guy (Arthur's _business_ is 'knowing a guy') so they're welcomed at the front desk and issued passes and maps.

"I'd love to work on something like this," says Ariadne. "It's so full of light!" She examines the objects on the 'wall of inspiration'. "And I'd love to have an apartment where I could do this for myself: I've got a shelf of ..." She gestures. "Stuff."

"Stuff?" echoes Arthur, lifting an eyebrow.

"Technical term," says Ariadne, laughing. "Shapes I find intriguing. Seashells, fossils, a dog's skull -- sorry, is that too gruesome?"

"It's kind of gross," says Arthur, straight-faced. 

"But the shapes, the space ..." And she's talking faster now, telling him about the shapes she wants to build and the materials she'd want to use, the limitations of physics ...

Her passion's evident, and humbling. Inconvenient, too, Arthur realises when a guy on his way up to the mezzanine pauses to say, "Do you work here, mademoiselle?"

Ariadne blushes. "No," she says. "I'm a student."

"She's with me," offers Arthur. He notices that he's interposed himself between Ariadne and the ( _mid-thirties, Caucasian, piercings nose and left ear, tattoo peeking out over the collar of his plain black t-shirt, security pass clipped to his waist but Arthur can't make out the name_ ) man. "It's an amazing building," he says. "I thought she'd like to see it."

"Good," says the guy, clearly wrong-footed by Arthur's instinctual protectiveness. "Well, just let me know if I can help."

"Sure," says Arthur. "But actually, we're heading off soon for lunch."

“Oh,” says Ariadne, taken aback. “But I ...”

“There's no hurry,” says Arthur. “Take as long as you like.”

He drifts after Ariadne as she continues to explore the space: she's so evidently enjoying herself that it'd be mean to curtail it. After half an hour or so, his phone buzzes, and he slips it out of his pocket. 

It's a message from Eames. _Where r u?_

Arthur doesn't bother to reply. 

Which is why, when they're heading back to his hired Porsche (Ariadne still enthusing about the glazing on the wooden beams) he's surprised (and _seriously_ pissed) to note a familiar figure lurking in the stand of trees beyond the carpark. Sure, he can't make out the face at this distance, and the man is wearing black, blending into the background: but he's one hundred percent positive it's Eames, watching the two of them.

Loser. 

At least Arthur'd been able to follow Eames and Ariadne with his drone, 'til Eames spotted it. Eames just gets to hang out in the carpark like some dodgy pervert, while Arthur entertains the lady.

He doesn't acknowledge Eames' presence: but he does spray gravel as he accelerates away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some eaves are dropped.

"You reconned my date, asshole!" 

Arthur, bless him, doesn't even bother with a 'good morning'.

"What? No," says Eames, just in case Arthur is merely bluffing and didn't actually spot him lurking in the trees. "You did," accuses Arthur.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I did." Busted. Fine. Who takes a girl on a date to a _research lab_ , anyway? Really. "I reconned your date," Eames says humbly, eyes downcast. He is, he's sure, the very model of contrition.

"We had a deal, Eames!"

"We did. I'm sorry. I just started thinking --"

"Thinking! That's a first." Thankfully Arthur doesn't ask him _what_ he was thinking. "So if there was some ... action," he goes on, "what were you gonna do? Call in special ops?"

"No, I --"

"Sniper squad?"

"No!" snaps Eames, offended. Arthur doesn't have much faith in Eames' own talents, does he? It's not as though it'd take a sniper squad to convince Ariadne she'd picked the wrong guy. That Arthur was already claimed. Eames can be _ever_ so convincing. "Look," he says, because really, it's time they sorted this out. "I --"

Arthur's fucking phone fucking rings.

"Hello?" says Arthur, his eyes not leaving Eames'. "Speaking ... He is? Okay. Okay, that's good." He scribbles something on the pad in front of him. "I'll get onto it right away."

"New intel?" says Eames. Under the table, his hand's clenched in a fist. He concentrates on relaxing the muscles.

"The mark's definitely in Paris," says Arthur. He's smooth as silk now, irritation evaporated by his enthusiasm for their actual job. "Flew in last Tuesday -"

"Told you so," interjects Eames.

"I know," says Arthur, with a snarky eye-roll that's belied by his grin. "You picked him up with your secret spidey-sense, Mr. Eames. Immigration just confirmed it, though, which means we can act on the info without having to explain ourselves."

"Cool," says Eames. "So how're we going to act?"

"You're going to head out to the Cimetière de Pantin, check out Madame Cobb's grave," says Arthur.

"While you are ...?" enquires Eames, gesturing. 

"Making enquiries at the University," says Arthur. He stands up, reaches for his messenger bag.

"Give Ariadne my love," snipes Eames.

"What?" says Arthur. The eye-roll this time is less affectionate. "Don't be a dick, Eames: I'm following up a goddamned _lead_ , not sneaking off to romance her behind your back." 

"I really like this girl," says Eames. It's not even a lie. He _does_ like her: more to the point, she's his best option if he wants to have any kind of relationship while he's here.

"I really like her too," says Arthur.

"No, I really _really_ like her." Okay, maybe he's over-egging the pudding, but it might just provoke Arthur into rethinking ... rethinking everything. And anyway, it'd be easier to go out with her himself than sit back and watch Arthur's particularly stilted brand of romantic infatuation. Eames doesn't think he could bear that. 

"So do I," says Arthur, and it's more a challenge than a confession.

"You do, do you?" says Eames, leaning back insouciantly in his chair and stretching out his legs. Does Arthur's gaze drop to his lap? Does it hell.

Arthur's back straightens. "Yeah."

"You're not backing off, then," says Eames. 

"Nope."

"Okay," says Eames, drawing out the vowels. He's restless: stands up, shoves his chair aside, rounds the desk so he's between Arthur and the door. "Then you ought to know that we ... shared a kiss." Christ, he sounds cheesy. 

"Hey," says Arthur, "we kissed too. It was pretty special." He's right up in Eames' space, goading him., "I don't think it'll be the last."

"Well, we'll see about that, won't we?" says Eames coolly, refusing to be baited. Refusing to let Arthur rile him. Resisting the temptation to lean in and demonstrate to Arthur what a _really_ special kiss can be like.

*

Arthur will never understand why Eames would sooner get a hotel room than spring for a decent apartment. It's the same every time they're in the field: Arthur rents somewhere he can be private, Eames finds somewhere where they'll pick up after him. There are advantages to this arrangement: if one of them gets wounded, it's better to take care of it in a wipe-clean, anonymous hotel bathroom. And it means Eames tends to head over to Arthur's place if they've an evening to kill.

It's easier, Arthur's found, to keep control of himself when he's in his own space, even if that space is strictly temporary. Easier to kick Eames out at the end of the evening. Easier to sprawl on his own couch and inhale the lingering scent...

Yeah. 

Still, Eames' hotel is a discreet establishment, not especially luxurious but quiet and clean. There are no staff in evidence when Arthur drops by after sending Eames on that wild goose chase to Mal Cobb's grave. He lets himself into Eames' suite quickly, easily and without attracting any untoward attention.

He pockets his picks and takes out the bugs.

Thing is, cameras are fine if you expect your mark to carry out all their suspicious activity in well-lit areas. But cameras eat bandwidth and they're useless in the dark: and Arthur suspects that Eames is all about candles and mood lighting when he's romancing the ladies. 

(Shame, really. Arthur wouldn't mind seeing Eames spread out on a bed in broad daylight, sun gilding his skin and making the hair on his chest glint golden. He'd love to be able to simply _look_. Or, okay, maybe not only look, but --) 

That's personal, subjective, unprofessional. Arthur needs to act like Eames is just another mark. Like this is an official investigation -- albeit one carried out with his own resources -- rather than a desperate need to know how (and how _far_ ) things are going between Eames and Ariadne.)

He puts one microphone behind the ugly print in the main room; slips another under the safety notice on the back of the door, where it'll pick up any arrivals or departures. After a brief tussle of conscience, he makes a small incision in the mattress and inserts the third mike there. 

(The attack of conscience isn't about damaging hotel property: Arthur couldn't give a shit. No, it's about the risk of listening to... well, to _Eames_. When he's alone. When he's... Okay, he probably jerks off in the shower. And Arthur's shared a bed with Eames before, in the field: in Kandahar, in Bangkok, in Cardiff. He's not fazed by the realities of snores, farts, bad dreams.)

Okay. He's got two bugs left. Time to head for the University.

*

When they first got to Paris, they'd agreed it made sense not to stay in the same building. "Two boltholes," Arthur'd said. "In case you blow your cover." 

Eames had answered that barb with a friendly obscenity. Actually, he'd just as soon not be exposed to 24-hour Arthur, literally or figuratively. If he can't be exposed to Arthur the way he wants (a way which involves nudity, honesty and possibly even _feelings_ ) then he doesn't want to be around Arthur when they're not working. He doesn't want to relax with Arthur, or watch TV with him (not that French TV's anything to write home about), or take turns cooking. Too much of a risk.

But of course he has a key to Arthur's place, a walk-up flat in the Marais. He knows his way around. Knows that Arthur's up at the University, checking on Dominick Cobb's father-in-law, Professor Miles. (Who, Eames is pretty sure, is one of Ariadne's professors. Might be worth planting a few questions there.) 

He moves quickly through Arthur's flat. Doesn't want to leave anything that's constantly transmitting -- Arthur's job is to spot surveillance, and he's a past master at detecting bugs. Instead, Eames installs some neat little spycams he'd found in a shop on Tottenham Court Road. One snapshot every hour on the hour, straight to his phone, with an option to switch to video mode. (No use installing anything on his laptop: Arthur's prone to 'borrowing' it to play Carcassonne.)

So. One camera outside the kitchen window, right up against the vent; one in the tiny lounge, pretty much concealed by a drooping pot-plant. (Arthur's got the opposite of green fingers; kills any plant he's let near.) Eames hesitates at the bedroom door, but -- hell, all's fair in love and war, right? 

Whichever one this is.

Eames angles the third camera so it gives a decent view of Arthur's rumpled bed. The bed where Arthur sleeps. The bed where Arthur wakes. Hell, the bed where Arthur --

Eames needs a smoke. He needs a beer. He _really_ needs to get over this ridiculous crush.

* 

Eames is still out: hasn't called or texted. Maybe he's playing hooky. Maybe he's finagled another date with Ariadne. That girl doesn't know what she's getting herself into. Arthur probably needs to drop some hints, warn her off Eames -- except for the thing about them not knowing one another, not even knowing she's dating them both.

Fuck Eames. He likes to make everything more complicated than it needs to be. Arthur makes himself more coffee, draws the blind, plugs in his earbuds and settles down to check on his surveillance.

The bugs in Eames' hotel room are working fine, but there's no sign of Eames (or Ariadne) there. Okaaay. Arthur switches over to channel 1, which turns out to be the bug he left by the water-cooler outside Professor Miles' office. Yeah, that's --

Wait. That's Ariadne's voice. She's laughing. Arthur feels his neck muscles tense, and he leans forward, turning up the volume. Is that _Eames_ she's chatting to?

* 

"I can't believe this is my problem," says Ariadne. "I mean, this time last week I was dating my Warcraft guild: this week I'm dating two gorgeous guys."

"Don't talk about Warcraft as though it's a person," Yusuf reproves her. "It's a game. And you never told me they were gorgeous."

"Yeah: wanna see? I have pictures on my phone."

*

"--in there?"

Arthur's gone for his Glock before he realises it's _Eames_ who's come in without Arthur even _noticing_ , who's yanked the earbuds out of Arthur's laptop, who's standing there grinning with the wire dangling from one raised hand.

" _Fuck_ ," says Arthur, lowering the gun. "Asshole. I could've shot you."

"You were busy, mate," says Eames, grinning, raising his voice over the playback. He smells of smoke and, faintly, of that aftershave he likes. Arthur watches his expression change as Ariadne speaks again. "Wait. Is, is that --"

"I shouldn't be listening to this," says Arthur.

"Damn right," says Eames. "And you shouldn't be abusing government equipment to --"

"I am _not_. It's all mine. Well," Arthur amends, "the guy I got it from won't be needing it any more."

"We might as well pool our resources," says Eames, hooking a foot round his chair and flopping into it. "What did I miss? Is there any more coffee?"

"She thinks we're both 'gorgeous'," says Arthur glumly.

*

"I'll ask you questions and you answer," says Yusuf. "Just like an exam. Right. Is there anything bad about them?"

"Let me think. Flaws. Well, Arthur? Arthur's got these enormous ears. Kind of jug ears."

(Eames is in hysterics. Arthur scowls fearsomely at him, and turns up the volume.)

"In some cultures," says Yusuf, "they think that's inversely related to penis size. Big ears, small --"

("You know that's not true," says Arthur, kicking Eames (not especially gently) in the hope of getting him to shut the fuck up. "You've seen it. In Bangladesh.")

"-- about Eames?"

"Well," says Ariadne, "he's British."

"Ugh," says Yusuf. "Okay, so one down for each of 'em, then."

("What's that supposed to mean?" demands Eames indignantly.)

"And their good points? They do have good points, right?"

"Well, Arthur has the most amazing smile," says Ariadne. "And he brings out the best in me. Makes me want to be a grown-up."

(Arthur sits back in his chair, smirking. Take _that_ , you British asshole.)

"And Mr Eames?"

"We have so much fun. He's great. He's sweet. But he's kind of ... safe."

("Safe?" says Eames. He's knuckling his upper lip, a tell that Arthur's very familiar with. It means Eames is seriously worried. He kind of wants to reassure Eames, tell him that 'safe' isn't the word. But hey, all's fair.)

"You know, Ari," says Yusuf, "you need to make a decision. For your own sake, and for theirs."

"You know what I need?" says Ariadne.

"A joint?" offers Yusuf.

"A deadline! I'm totally down with deadlines. I'll give myself... hmm, one week to make a decision."

"And what are you going to base that decision on? Another date?"

"Sex," says Ariadne, and Arthur almost chokes on his coffee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a weekend passes.

This is the first time Ariadne's ventured into a paintball arena. She's not a pacifist, but she doesn't get off on the thrill of violence. It's never appealed. But maybe she's been too damn polite about saying so, because Eames was kind of determined on bringing her here on their second date.

 _Well_ , thinks Ariadne philosophically, from her vantage point on a creaking wooden tower, _it's not like I've actually participated_.

She's taken aback by Eames' sheer physicality. Okay, she'd known he wasn't telling her everything about himself. The way his gaze slid off her, sometimes... Maybe he had a kid, or an awkward ex, or a crush on a co-worker. She'd never have suspected this: never have suspected that the guy who strolled beside her through the park, admiring the flowerbeds and gently mocking passing rollerbladers was so ... capable of mayhem.

Eames charges at a bunch of jumpsuited teenagers, shoves them aside ungently, and hauls himself up onto the fence. He's as sure-footed as her cat was, and he holds the paintgun casually, like it's ... like it's a toy, or a tool, or an extension of his hand. (She's reminded of her last boyfriend back home, who used to do a lot of home improvement: Eames holds the gun the way Rob held his power-drill.)

Someone curses Eames in idiomatic French, high-pitched and rageful, as he yanks on a guy's ankle and sends him tumbling down. Doesn't look back to see if his victim's okay, either. He's totally focussed on the flag -- there, he's gotten hold of it, brandishing it and grinning like a maniac.

Ariadne makes her way over to him, her paintgun (virgin and fully-loaded) in her hand. 

"Didja see that?" Eames' accent is sharper now, less refined. Maybe _this_ is what he's been hiding from her -- this brutal, sweating, gleeful warrior. "Didja see how I burnt through that lot? I totally set this place on fire!"

"You were awesome," says Ariadne, dry-mouthed. "You're scarily good at this."

"Yeah?" says Eames, grinning. "How's that make you feel?"

She can smell him: sweat, deodorant, the oily smell of paint from the gun. There's no paint on Eames. Nobody hit him even once. 

_Turned on,_ Ariadne thinks. _Repelled_. "Like I'll be safe with you when the zombies come," she compromises, and Eames laughs with her.

*

It's Saturday evening. Arthur's poured himself a beer and he's lounging on his sofa, half-listening to the audio feed, most of his attention on the new Miéville novel. He stops reading mid-sentence when there's noise from the tinny laptop speakers.

It's the sound of Eames opening the door of his hotel room. "After you," comes his voice.

"Thank you," says a woman -- Ariadne. "I had an awesome day. I -- Wow!"

Maybe Eames is stripping off, thinks Arthur bitterly. That'd be worth a 'wow!'.

"D'you think the candles are a bit cheesy?" says Eames. Arthur can imagine his expression: that eager desire to please, that humility. Fake humility. Eames is good at showing people what he wants them to see. And how the fuck did he even get candles? Charmed the hotel staff, Arthur guesses. Asshole.

"I think they're wonderful," Ariadne says warmly. "This has been the perfect day."

The hell it has. Eames took her _paintballing_ , for fuck's sake. That's hardly romantic. It's something you do with your buddies, a friendly competition. (And, okay, something they do, he and Eames, to keep themselves sharp.) Arthur's already scoping out places, _civilised_ places, to take Ariadne. Assuming he gets the opportunity.

They're not talking any more. They have to be -- Eames must be kissing her. 

"Fucker," says Arthur to the empty room. He tabs to the other window, and hits the button. Candles, huh? The smoke'll be a good cover. Naked flames, smoke, heat; there's a fire raging in room 103. 

"Let it rain," says Arthur: and over the audio comes the hissing roar of sprinklers, and Ariadne's shriek, and a heartfelt curse from Eames.

He should've set up one camera, at least. It'd be fantastic to see them soaking wet; Ariadne like a half-drowned cat, her bra showing through her blouse, and Eames with his shirt sticking to his skin like that time in Mumbai, wet hair in his eyes and ink dark through the linen --

Has Arthur's intervention actually achieved what he intended? Or has he provoked Ariadne into jumping Eames like any red-blooded human being would do?

"-- need to get home anyway," she's saying, "and you have to dry out --"

Cool. 

(Okay, Arthur's kind of disappointed in Ariadne's lack of taste; but Eames is not getting laid tonight, which is, after all, the point of the exercise.)

Arthur flips down the laptop screen and heads for the shower.

*

"I think you'll like it," Arthur tells her, but Ariadne really isn't convinced. That's more or less what Eames said about the paintballing. _What is it about me,_ she wonders, _that guys want to push my limits?_

She puts her hand on Arthur's shoulder (it's a stretch) and feels a stranger's hand on her own collarbone. Then, like a kindergarten crocodile, they're filing past the blackout curtain and into a space that's utterly dark.

Ariadne's hand tightens on Arthur's jacket. She can feel the fine cloth crumpling, but Arthur doesn't complain.

"I like it here," says Arthur, once they're seated. There's someone she doesn't know to her right, so she leans leftward, close enough to feel Arthur's breath on her face. "It's intimate," he goes on, slowly. "When you take away sight, you have to concentrate on your other senses."

"How are we even going to _eat_?" says Ariadne, and to her own ears her voice sounds shrill and panicky. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. She can smell Arthur's cologne, and a whiff of stale cigarettes (though she's pretty sure he doesn't smoke); she can hear him breathing, and hear someone across the room laughing with that same shrill edge. 

"Eat with your fingers if you want," says Arthur. She can _feel_ him laughing silently. "It's not like anyone's watching."

Their waiter announces himself, gently, from somewhere just behind Ariadne. "I'm called Paul," he says. "If you need anything, you just call for me, yes?" He reels off the day's menu and specials, offers some tips on table etiquette in complete darkness ("you put your finger into the wineglass, yes? So you don't pour too much wine") and takes their order. Well, takes Arthur's order and Ariadne's hasty "the same, please"; she can't think, can't concentrate, there's too much going on and she's too aware of everything.

"It's easy, Ariadne," comes Arthur's soft voice from out of the darkness. "Just listen to me." He takes her hand. She hadn't realised until now just how large _his_ hands are; his skin's smooth and cool, slightly callused but well cared for. The linen of his shirt-cuff brushes her bare arm, and she shivers.

Arthur tells her about Dans Le Noir, the restaurant and its staff and its history: tells her about the first time he came here ("with a colleague," he says, and there's a weight of emotion in those words that Ariadne suspects she wouldn't have noticed if she'd been watching his face; he's good at hiding, out in the world of light and vision), and the colleague ended up licking chocolate sauce off his plate. "It was all over his face when we left," says Arthur fondly.

By the time their food arrives Ariadne's almost comfortable with the situation. She can't see what she's eating; can't decide if it's chicken or pork; can't help but overhear other conversations. (An elderly man mourning his dead daughter. A guy with an English accent who speaks only to his waiter. A woman giggling about her husband and his boyfriend.)

The meal passes more quickly than she'd expected: when they're led out, blinking, to the bar, she's surprised to see that it's dark outside. "But not _dark_ ," she insists to Arthur as they collect their things (phones, Arthur's watch, Ariadne's keyring with its maglite torch) from the locker. "It's never really dark anywhere, is it? Except here."

"Except here," says Arthur, who's checking his reflection in the big mirror by the door. His face is immaculate (Ariadne's gotten a smear of sauce across her cheek somehow), but he straightens his tie, and produces a handkerchief for her to clean up with. "It's interesting, isn't it?" he says. "How differently we perceive the world when our primary sense is taken away."

"I'm not sure I like it," says Ariadne honestly.

"But do you regret it?" says Arthur. He's not touching her any more, and she feels that absence keenly. It's ... the evening's brought them closer, somehow, survivors of a shared experience.

"Je ne regrette rien," says Ariadne, and smiles up at him.

*

It's been a long Sunday.

There was zero point in staking out their dinner-date, so Eames has had plenty of time to muse on the injustices of life. Chiefly, he thinks as he stretches the knots out of his back, the injustice is that both Arthur and Ariadne are odds-on getting laid this evening, and Eames is going home (well, back to his hotel room) alone.

If he was a better mate to Arthur, he'd slink away, let himself out of the flat across the alleyway -- the tenants have been away for some time, given the pile of post behind the door -- and find a bar where he can drown his sorrows in beer and flirtation. But some things matter more than friendship, and this is apparently one of them: cockblocking Arthur so Arthur's just as frustrated as he's left Eames. And it's not just about how he wrecked--

The lights go on in Arthur's flat. Eames takes one slow deep breath, and lets it out.

He can see the pair of them laughing, though of course the sound doesn't carry. (Paris is so bloody _loud_.) Arthur's not bothering to give her the tour: bloody idiot, he could've shown her the bedroom and stopped there. Now he's produced a bottle of wine from the kitchen, and two glasses. (Eames raises an eyebrow. Getting fancy, Arthur?)

Ariadne says something and Arthur gestures in the direction of the bathroom. She smiles at him and heads out of Eames' line of sight. 

It's now or never. (And for a split second Eames actually does consider the 'never' option: ditching his weapon, slinking away, letting Ariadne and Arthur get it on.)

Nah.

Arthur dims the lights, heads for the window and opens it. He's gazing out into the darkness, directly at where Eames is lurking to one side of the window opposite. Can he see Eames? Can he hell.

Eames takes one step to his left and raises his weapon. Breathe, breathe, _squeeze_.

Arthur's expression is hilarious. He slaps at his neck like he's been stung by a bee. Eames can see his eyes widen as he realises there's something more substantial than an insect beneath his palm.

Time for the reveal. Eames slaps on the lights so he's silhouetted: gives Arthur the thumbs-up.

"Wanker," he mouths, as Arthur slumps to the couch.

*

Eames is already in the office when Arthur stamps in on Monday morning.

"A tranq dart," he yells at Eames, who's sitting there surfing the web with a shit-eating grin on his face. "A _tranq dart_?! Three inches over and I would've been dead!" Because, _fuck_ , that stuff gives Arthur worse hangovers than a whole night of tequila slammers. And fuck knows what Ariadne thought when she came back and found him passed out. (At least she'd put him in the recovery position before she left. Or maybe that was Eames. Who knows what the fuck is going through his head?)

"Four," says Eames, coolly. "Four inches."

"I can't believe you didn't trust me!" says Arthur, hands on the desk, leaning over Eames.

Eames raises an eyebrow, kicks back, the picture of lazy confidence. "I can't believe you flooded my hotel room," he counters.

"I was afraid the candles were a fire hazard," says Arthur. It sounds lamer out loud than it did in his head. Which is saying a lot.

"Nah, the only thing you were worried about getting fired up was Ariadne, wasn't it?" Eames _winks_ at him, and his leer's almost enough to put Arthur in need of a cool-down himself. "Honesty, Arthur. You should try it."

Arthur opens his mouth to say something. Something _honest_. Something he might regret, but what the fuck, this has gone far enough.

"She can't have--"

Eames' phone rings (who even has Lady Gaga as a ringtone any more?) and he raises a hand, dismissing Arthur's confession, before he answers.

The moment's gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for delay: illness, plus loss of impetus when I realised I wouldn't get it finished and posted in time for au_bingo deadline ...

"I like them both, Yusuf," Ariadne says, for what feels like the millionth time. "Why the hell shouldn't I date them both?"

"I don't want you to get hurt," says Yusuf. She can't read his expression at all.

"Hurt?" Ariadne makes a rude noise. "It's not like I'm gonna get serious about either of them. Honestly, Yusuf? They both seem like there's something ... like they're not being straight with me."

Yusuf raises an eyebrow.

"Not like _that_. Get your mind out the gutter, man!"

"Like what, then?"

"Well, Arthur's all careful of me, but I don't even know what he does for work."

"You didn't ask him?"

"Of course I asked him! He gave me some crap about security consultancy. But what kind of 'security consultant'," she finger-sketches the quotes in case Yusuf didn't pick up on her sarcasm, "wines and dines a girl and then passes out on the couch? It's not what I'd call secure."

"What about Eames?"

"Well, he doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass. But -- I dunno." Ariadne examines her empty wineglass until Yusuf gets the hint. "It's like he's all that, and I'm just a little girl. Just a kid he needs to entertain."

"And Arthur doesn't --"

"Nah," says Ariadne, slopping wine over the throw. "Arthur does it too."

"You mean they don't take you seriously?"

"No, that's not it. It's like ... it's like I'll do for now. I'm a stopgap. A substitute. Arthur won't tell me about his job, but his place doesn't look like a home -- it's just somewhere he's staying for now. And Eames? Eames lives in a _hotel_ , Yusuf."

"So whatever happens, it's not going to be long-term."

"I guess not," says Ariadne, suddenly forlorn. "I guess I'm gonna end up with nothing, in the long run."

"Don't be so negative," says Yusuf brightly. "Maybe you'll run away with Eames. Or persuade Arthur to stick around." 

"I feel like they've both got other priorities," says Ariadne slowly. "Like I'm just a game." 

"Or maybe they're a pair of losers who can't see when they're onto a good thing," says Yusuf, with an expression so cartoonishly indignant that she has to laugh.

"Maybe," she says. "But hey: nothing ventured, and all that jazz." 

"Was that supposed to be an English accent?"

Ariadne chucks a pillow at him. "There's still the tie-breaker," she says. "If nothing else goes wrong."

"Hmm," says Yusuf from under the pillow. He doesn't sound convinced.

*

It was pretty clear from the sprinkler incident that Arthur's bugged Eames' hotel room. Sure, he could switch -- the carpet still smells damp, and the hotel were ever so apologetic about the problem with the sprinklers -- but why the hell should he? He likes the view from his window (down into the garden of the house next door, where there are cherry trees and urban foxes); he's fucked if he'll up and move just because Arthur's a controlling bastard. Less disruptively, he could simply get rid of the three tiny microphones that Arthur's gone to such trouble to conceal.

Or he could just leave them be, and fuck with Arthur's head.

Eames doesn't let himself dwell on that wording. He takes Ariadne out for dinner: nowhere too fancy, just the local cafe-bar. "I wanted to apologise for getting you soaked the other night." He wants to laugh at her frustrated look -- literally frustrated, one way or another she's been turned on and fired up not once but twice and neither time's come through -- but honestly, he can sympathise.

"It was a lovely evening," says Ariadne, sipping wine and smiling at him. "We should try it again. Maybe you should come to mine --"

"Ah," says Eames. Yeah, sure, it'd be easy enough. But he does like the idea of Arthur hearing him fuck Ariadne, and not being able to do anything to stop them. (Eames has made some mods of his own to the hotel security. Fingers crossed there's not an actual fire, because the sprinkler system on his floor is going to need some maintenance.) Arthur listening as Eames...

"Let's go to mine," says Ariadne. 

"No," says Eames, making a split-second decision. "Sorry, darling: I've got an early start, and my mate's picking me up from the hotel. No way are we getting a repeat of the other night. Besides," he winks, "you don't want to go inviting strange men into your home."

"Oh, I don't know," says Ariadne.

But she lets him take her back to his hotel, and they kiss in the hallway. Eames can practically _hear_ Arthur's teeth grinding. Shame it's not a two-way link, but that's what imagination is for.

"Mmm," he says, nice and clear for Arthur's benefit. "You're so ... Come on, let's go to bed."

When he leans back against the door, pulling Ariadne with him, he can feel the tiny telltale bump of the bug pressed against his shoulderblade. He turns Ariadne, pressing her against the door, and gets an almost theatrical moan from her.

"Mr Eames," she says huskily, "I'm ... I'm not this kind of girl."

"I know _exactly_ what kind of girl you are," says Eames, and slides his hand behind her neck, under the laminated map of the building, and crushes the bug against the wood.

The second mike's behind the badly-framed Monet print above the desk. Eames manoeuvres Ariadne across the room, hikes her up so she's sitting on the edge of the desk, and muscles in.

"That's why," he says clearly, and kisses Ariadne's neck, "I ... the way I feel about you, Ariadne..."

Too hammy?

"I can't remember the last time I felt like this about a woman," he finishes, hooking Arthur's bug out from behind the picture frame and grinding it into the wallpaper.

The third one's in the bedroom, tucked inside the mattress; perfectly positioned for those intimate moments. Eames does tend to get loud when he's having sex, though he'd sooner Arthur discovered that in person. The question is whether he's prepared to fuck Ariadne just for Arthur's benefit.

Is he hell. He's got _some_ decency left.

They make it to the bed. They get horizontal. Eames, who isn't made of stone, is thinking hard about Tory politicians, Rupert Murdoch, and a particularly gruesome interrogation chamber he'd busted Arthur out of. (Bloody Arthur. It always comes back to him.) He kisses Ariadne with lip-smacking fervour and forbids his dick to get involved: only when she's moaning his name does he reach down behind her, hook the bug out of its hiding place and squash it between thumb and index finger.

"Ariadne," he says softly. "I -- I can't do this."

"What?" says Ariadne.

He rolls off her, which gives her plenty of room to punch him on the shoulder. (She hits harder than he'd expected, but hell, he deserves it.)

"You _what_?" she says. Her face is red, but now it's more anger than arousal. 

"There's --" begins Eames, completely ready to be honest; but he catches himself before he can blow it. Because if _he_ doesn't get the girl, Arthur _will_ : and he honestly doesn't know which'd be worse.

"Someone else?" says Ariadne, horrid perceptive creature that she is. She sits up, rebuttons her shirt, and tries to catch Eames' gaze.

"I'll call you a cab," says Eames. "It's -- it's just not a good time. Tonight. Not ... Raincheck?"

Ariadne brushes a dry kiss against his cheek (it burns) and swings herself off the bed. "Three strikes and you're out," she says, reaching for her handbag. "Better make the next one a winner, Mr Eames."

*

"'I've never felt this way before'?" says Arthur, when Eames finally shows up. "Pretty fancy words to get the girl in bed, Mr. Eames. Well done. Good performance." He's cold with anger, holding himself very still because otherwise he'd be hitting something. Someone. Ariadne doesn't deserve Eames' lies.

"It wasn't a performance," says Eames nonchalantly. He's loose-limbed, relaxed, eyes half-lidded. Can't have slept much, thinks Arthur vindictively. "But I don't expect you to understand."

"Why can't you just admit you lost?" says Arthur.

"I didn't lose, actually." Eames settles himself in his chair. "I'd say I'm doing pretty well, despite you showing up with your fancy suits and your Guide to Hipster Paris. And let's not forget that I _did_ find her first."

"This isn't finders keepers, Eames," says Arthur. "You may have seen her first, but it's me who's seeing her tonight."

Eames looks ... shocked. It's a good look on him. "Tonight?" he echoes.

"She called earlier," says Arthur. "Didn't mention any ... other plans." He'll be the better man: he won't cast aspersions on Eames' performance last night, or Ariadne's keenness to move on. 

It's funny, though, because it sounded like Eames was giving her a night to remember, before the bastard shorted out Arthur's bugs. Arthur shoves that thought away before it can distract him again. "It's not my fault you're always a step behind," he adds, in the hope of goading a reaction out of Eames.

"If I'm a step behind it's because I'm always cleaning up after you," retorts Eames. "You know what?" he goes on, fiddling with his phone, not even looking at Arthur any more. "I couldn't give a monkey's who Ariadne chooses between us, but this -- what we _had_ \--"

"Yeah, what?" says Arthur, like it means -- meant -- nothing at all.

"It's over."

"Fine," says Arthur. "So let's finish the assignment, round up Cobb and his stolen goods, and get the hell out of Dodge."

"Fine," snaps Eames. "I'm on it."

*

After Eames and his fucking issues -- seriously, who leads a woman on so enthusiastically and then gets cold feet? Maybe he _is_ gay, like Yusuf joked -- Ariadne needs something nice and straightforward and uncomplicated. And Arthur's a gentleman, right?

He takes her to a nice, straightforward restaurant, excellent pizza (fuck, how did she not know about Pizza Chic?) and just enough wine to smooth the occasional awkward moment. By the time he's walked her back to her apartment, Ariadne's pretty sure she's onto a good thing.

She lets him bend to kiss her goodnight outside the building's front door; then hops up onto the second step and kisses him again, face to face, leaning into him and giggling as he nudges her off-balance.

"I should be a gentleman," murmurs Arthur, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

"Want the good news?" says Ariadne brightly.

Arthur lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm no gentleman," says Ariadne. "Wanna come up?"

"For a coffee?" says Arthur.

"You can have a coffee too," says Ariadne, taking him by the hand and leading him through the doorway.

*

Ariadne waits til she sees Arthur walking down the street, neat and self-contained, before she grabs her phone.

"Oh my god, Yusuf, he spent the night!"

"That's great," says Yusuf, though he doesn't sound especially overjoyed. "Which 'he' are we talking about, by the way?"

"Arthur," says Ariadne. "Fuck, Yusuf, I'm going to hell."

"You're not going to hell. And if you are, I'll be there to pick you up. But what about Eames? Didn't you say you were meeting him for lunch?"

" _Shit_ ," says Ariadne. "How can I face Eames?"

"Hey, you never promised to be exclusive," says Yusuf. "Ah ... you _didn't_ promise to be exclusive, did you?"

"It never came up," says Ariadne, with a flash of temper, "so, no. No, wait: I didn't _fuck_ Arthur. I just slept with him. Like, in the same bed."

"Oh," says Yusuf.

"Are you laughing at me?" says Ariadne. "Because this is so not funny."

"Of course it's not," says Yusuf. "And you're not going to hell. Because you haven't done anything to warrant it."

"I better try harder," says Ariadne grimly.


	6. Chapter 6

Clearly Arthur's even less on top of things than he'd realised when he woke up (in a strange bed, for fuck's sake: what is he, twenty?) because Eames is already in the office when Arthur shoulders the door open, coffee in hand.

"You have absolutely no self control," says Eames icily.

Arthur gawps at him. Something about the pot and the kettle springs to mind: but then again, maybe this morning ( _only_ this morning) Eames has a point.

Not that Arthur's letting him score it. "What? Eames, what are --"

"Oh come on, Arthur, don't try to deny it. I saw you leaving Ariadne's place this morning."

"You were checking up on me?"

"It's on my way," says Eames.

It's a blatant lie, but Arthur's not really in a position to call him on it. On the other hand, Eames doesn't get to play martyr either, not after --

"I didn't plan on this happening," says Arthur defensively. "Anyway, she invited me in."

"Of course she did," says Eames, with a leer. "What about the rules, eh?"

" _Fuck_ the rules, Eames. This is not a game any more. I really care for her."

"Great. You have affections. Only took you thirty years."

Arthur wants to wince. On the one hand, he's done an awesome job of concealing his ... his _affections_ from Eames. On the other hand, he's apparently managed to conceal _everything_. Which means (and yeah, Arthur'd worked this one out on his own, thank you, Ariadne) that a fuck of a lot of his _affections_ are tied up with Eames. Who, if Arthur's any judge, is further than he's ever been from returning Arthur's goddamn _affections_.

Okay. 

"Eames, look: I slept with her."

"I'm well aware of that, thank you, Arthur." It's that exact pissy tone that drives Arthur up the wall. 

"No, I mean I _slept_ with her. I fell asleep. That's never happened to me before."

"Bollocks hasn't it," scoffs Eames. "Happens all the time!"

"It does _not_!"

"You're out like a light whenever I have -- 'had', I should say -- the misfortune to be sharing a room with you," says Eames.

"That's different," snaps Arthur. 

_Fuck_ is it different. He's safe with Eames. He's ...

Arthur is so totally screwed.

He starts to frame something, an apology or a declaration or a confession or even just a story from last night, when Ariadne (the evil bitch) sat him down with a vile cup of coffee and a joint, and somehow managed to get him talking --

Eames' phone rings. "Ariadne!" he says brightly, like he hasn't just demolished Arthur's hopes and dreams. "Lunch? Yes, I'm free -- nothing much," he adds, looking askance at Arthur and chuckling. "No, nothing that can't wait. Pompidou? Les Georges? Sure. Half an hour?"

"She called you," says Arthur numbly. He feels like gravity's just reversed itself, like the sun's setting in the east. Maybe it's a weird gravitational effect caused by the terrible sinking feeling in his gut. Ariadne _knows_. Eames is going to meet Ariadne. The shit is gonna hit the fan.

"Gotta go," says Eames with a shit-eating grin, and slaps Arthur's shoulder -- none too gently -- on his way to the door.

"Fuck my life," says Arthur to the empty office.

*

The Metro's packed, and Eames is ten minutes later than he'd hoped: he charges up the ridiculous escalator, vaguely aware of a chorus of protest from the school groups he's shoved aside, and takes a moment to regroup before he saunters into the restaurant, and finds Ariadne waiting.

"Really glad you called," he says, once they're seated. "I didn't expect you to, it was a surprise." (He knows he's babbling) "Which is great because I love surprises." 

Fuck, he sounds like a loony, but Ariadne doesn't seem to mind. She's preoccupied, not quite meeting his gaze.

"I don't," she says. "Usually they turn out more bad than -- oh _shit_."

"Hi," says Arthur's voice from behind Eames.

'Oh shit', indeed. For a mindless moment Eames actually considers going for his gun. It's _Arthur_ , for fuck's sake. Arthur who slept with (or possibly only _slept_ with) Ariadne last night. Arthur who was, until very recently, Eames' best mate, the guy he'd do anything for.

"Arthur," says Ariadne, red-faced and flustered. "What are --? I'm sorry, Eames, this is my friend Arthur."

Arthur's wild-eyed but otherwise immaculate, the bastard. He nods at Eames as though they are, in fact, perfect strangers.

"Pleased to meet you," says Eames, testing. He clasps Arthur's hand just a little more firmly than is polite.

"Lovely to meet you," says Arthur. His smile is almost convincing. "Are you British?"

"Yes, Arthur, I am," says Eames.

"That's a crying shame," says Arthur, and now there's a glint of actual humour (or at least mockery) in his gaze.

"Mmm," says Eames. "Forgive me for mentioning it, but may I say what extraordinarily large ears you have?"

"All the better to hear you with," says Arthur, holding Eames' gaze. It's possible that he thinks he's communicating a message of vital importance. It's possible that he's come here, barged in on Eames' lunch date, solely to gloat.

"Would you excuse me just a second?" says Ariadne desperately, her gaze bouncing between them. "Order me a drink. I'll be right back."

"You have neither the grace nor the humility to lose like a man, do you?" says Eames, once Ariadne's rapid footsteps have faded into the background noise of the restaurant.

"It's Cobb," says Arthur. "He's with Miles, and there's new evidence. He didn't kill his wife, Eames: and he's willing to hand over all their research, the experimental device -- but we have to get on it. Right now. Before the gendarmerie show."

"You know," says Eames, torn between nostalgia, fondness and sheer exasperation, "you're incredible. Really you are. I have to take my hat off to you. This is really impressive."

"Listen," says Arthur, grabbing Eames' forearm.

Eames goes still. "Take your hands off me."

"Eames, listen to --"

"Get your 'ands off me, mate." Fuck, he sounds like the mouthy oik he used to be: it's like he's regressed fifteen years. It's getting on for that long since anyone's pissed him off this much and got away with it. Never mind that it's _Arthur_ : Eames can feel an old familiar rage, garnished with jealousy, rising up and taking him over.

(In one small professional corner of his mind, he wishes Ariadne hadn't picked such a posh restaurant. If anything kicks off, those steak knives are trouble. And the clean-up's going to cost an arm and a leg.)

Arthur's still holding him, hasn't let go. Eames _warned_ him, he --

He shoves Arthur away: Arthur comes back swinging: it's on.

*

Ariadne's quietly freaking out in the bathrooms (what the _fuck_ is Arthur doing here? How did he even know where she and Eames were having lunch? What are they talking about right now? Are they _comparing notes_?) when she realises there's a hell of a lot of noise from the restaurant. Crashing. Screams.

"What the _fuck_?" Ariadne demands of her reflection. Suddenly she feels like a babysitter in charge of two adolescent boys.

She straightens her scarf, takes a deep breath, and heads back out to a scene of devastation. 

Diners are crowding out of the main doors, some of them still holding silverware, most of them indignant. The maître d' sees Ariadne emerging from the bathroom and fixes her with a deadly glare. ("Your ... friends, madame," she imagines him saying. "They are as goats. Kindly remove them.") And there's a fight, a knock-down no-holds-barred _fight_ , happening just about where their table is. Was.

It's Arthur and Eames. Of _course_ it is.

Last night, stoned and caffeinated, Arthur looked younger, softer, more like someone Ariadne might date. Now he's bashing Eames' head against the floor (at least the carpet's good and thick, and Ariadne hopes it's easy-clean too) and swearing.

Eames kicks up -- yeah, this is the guy she caught glimpses of when they were paintballing, this violent thug. He sends Arthur flying, but Arthur hooks his foot round Eames' ankle and Eames crashes down, practically on top of them.

Ariadne fights back the absurd urge to laugh. She's pretty sure the maître d' would start whaling on _her_. She takes one step towards where Arthur and Eames are sprawled. Another step. Are they finished? Or is this just a brief pause to catch breath?

Arthur's saying something.

"I should've killed you in Kandahar," he mumbles. His mouth's bleeding. "When I had the chance."

Hang on, thinks Ariadne.

"What? You having a laugh, mate?" Eames snorts with amusement, and winces. "I was the only thing keeping you _alive_ in Kandahar! I was your only friend!"

"Friend?" says Ariadne. It comes out as more of a squawk. "You two know each other?"

The looks they turn on her are identical, and guilty as hell. Two boys who think they've been clever, then realise they've been busted. 

"What was this?" Ariadne goes on. She is fucking _furious_ : she's so angry she can feel tears tightening her throat, prickling at the corners of her eyes. How _dare_ they? "Was it some kind of bet? Some kind of game? See who can get the girl first?"

"Let me explain," says Arthur indistinctly.

"No, let _me_ explain," insists Eames, sitting up. Arthur swats at him, but not like he means it. More like it's familiar, comfortable. Habit.

"Shut up," she tells Eames. "I get it now," she goes on, turning to where Arthur's trying to get up. "It's _him_ , isn't it? Isn't it, Arthur?"

Arthur says nothing, but his ears are turning red. (Well, redder: there's a smear of blood from Eames' split lip right across the side of Arthur's head). Eames -- Eames is staring at him, frowning slightly, like he's trying to figure something out.

"It totally makes sense," says Ariadne. Actually, it's kind of funny, and if this was happening to anyone else she'd be laughing. But ... yeah, if she adds together Arthur's blurry comments about being in love with his best friend, and Eames' inexplicable refusal to actually have sex with her (Ariadne's no supermodel, sure, but what red-blooded heterosexual guy turns down no-strings sex with someone he's spent the evening with?) then it makes sense: she gets it.

Or rather she doesn't get it. Doesn't get anything. But maybe they do.

"Wasn't a game," says Eames now. He does look apologetic, but Ariadne's been taken in by that mobile face before. "You're lovely, and I'd love to date you -- I s'pose that's off the table now?"

Ariadne can't resist the urge to fuck with the two of them, just a little. "Never say never!" she says brightly.

"I hope you can forgive him, Ariadne," says Arthur. "He's the best man I know. You --" 

"Bollocks, Arthur," interrupts Eames. "The pair of you belong together. You'll make each other happier than I --"

"You know what?" says Ariadne, silencing them both. "I already made my choice."

It's honestly pathetic, the way the two of them look up at her; the way they're leaning towards each other. Whoever she chooses is probably going to spend the next five minutes comforting the loser.

Except for how, as Yusuf told her last week, they're _both_ losers.

"I choose option C," says Ariadne. "Neither of the above. You two -- you're perfect together. You love one another." She fixes Eames with a stern look, and he swallows down whatever bullshit denial he was about to spout. "Stop trying to convince yourselves that what you have between you isn't important."

"But --" says Arthur.

"I don't --" says Eames.

"Oh, and guys?" says Ariadne, and actually, yeah, it _is_ funny, she _is_ laughing, because their _expressions_. She wonders if she can snap a photo to send to Yusuf. "Stop pretending to be straight. It's really not working for you."

She's just reaching for her phone when it rings. Yusuf, of course: she promised him a status update.

"Hey," she says, turning so she's not actually staring at Arthur and Eames as they help each other up, dabbing ineffectually at one another's cuts and bruises. "Well, no: but let's just say it's not my problem any more. ... Dinner? What, tonight?"

She glances at the guys. The _boys_. Arthur's got his phone out too, talking soft and urgent to someone. Eames is looking at Ariadne, grinning (his mouth's kind of messy with blood, eww) and giving her the thumbs-up.

"Yeah," says Ariadne. "I'm free."

-end-


End file.
